A few days have passed since I placed quill to parchment. I haven't had the mind to do so, neither would I have known what to write. How to let my thoughts be known to even myself seemed like a daunting task to say the very least. The event of Evangelline's death was like a hammer blow to a numb limb, a last sunder to a heart that was ill of ache. And now thinking back upon it all. Would I have done it all again? My only answer to that are other questions, I'm afraid – does a man need to learn lessons not wanted to learn, does it not all just stop in the end? Everything inevitably does.
My child I will never see. Still have I not mustered up the courage to ask Liz if it was a boy or girl. It's not that I don't want to know, but the news is still fresh and I take my time to quietly work through the pain, accept it gracefully. I try to, for my own good.
Once more I succumbed to my anger. It frightens me when this happens. It's sudden, caught unexpected. It's a surge of rancor that bursts out in a solid and real wall of malice, an unmistakable desire to hurt. Piperel and myself went to the Alley the other day. And by the Valar am I glad we had cauliflowers. We took most of it over to the children, thank goodness. This was atfter we came back from... Never mind. Best this is left even unwritten.
It was close to sunset, early evening. The shadows fell darkly, cast from the buildings around us, dropping its gloom over the filthy cobbles of the Alley. Yet nothing can further the sad state of the people themselves. Destitute they roamed, dirty and depressed as the mud itself that plastered to their feet and hands. Coal blacked faces stared up at us as we walked on. The street urchins looked, wide eyed and curious. The sight of Pip, clean if not garbed in the most magnificent dress, looked outlandish to them, perhaps. Me, my armour, in a seeming shapely condition, as well as the blades that adored my sides, must have been a seldom sight indeed in the Alley. Most of these folks dwell forgotten, only spent between a deathly, sickly struggle for survival. The men, young and old; toothless and age-worn, baked and seared by an uncaring life, rule by one thing only: the need to look after one's self. The distrust was clear in these eyes. Used to prejudices and accusations, of the Watch barging in and demanding answers neither of them can provide. None of these people would be trusted, anywhere in Bree.
The children were hungry. One could see cautious acceptance shine in their beady eyes when Pip handed out the food. I wasn't keen on letting her come with, but also know how adamant she can be when she wanted to. I was tempted, however, even if just to see those hands on her hips. But thoughts of that aside. The handing out was coming along, Martha in her tent helping, too. Till the man called out. I knew he was the cunt that took his fist to his daughter. That was when the anger came. It was as a searing reminder of how it was in Lake Town, the kids I saw on the docks. I am sorry for the children to have witnessed what happened, but I guess I couldn't control myself any longer before I lashed out. I didn't care, either, at that moment. Not when my boot made its sudden and satisfactory contact with his ugly mug. It felt good. It felt right. The fucker can wallow in his own blood and I'd have helped him there as well if it wasn't for his daughter's sake. It was as if his words cut through a thin membrane that I try desperately but feebly to enforce. I was sorry Pip had to see this side of me. I can't say I'd see it as attractive.
The evening before I left for the Shire Pip and myself discovered a theater in the middle of Bree, The Nomads Miraculous. How delighted Pip was. We had to investigate. Inside, however, was an unfortunate scene. A familiar one. Sadly too familiar. Cirywen, I think her name was - I've only seen her a few times in the Pony, once along Seaver's side by a gathering - was in a dreadful state, bottle of rum in her hand, drowning her sorrow with that last drop of liquor. It reminded me of myself after Eva decided to lock herself away. I have felt her pain before, or only a part of it. No person, I think, can truly understand another. Not their sorrows. Not their hurt.
Pip concocted a plan with Cirywen, a prank to pay Skalforn back for the bruise on Ciry's chin. They were brawling at some tavern or other; don't know the details. Well we got the pink paint, now to see how Pip uses it. I pity the poor bugger though, messing with the wrong ladies. Pip also gave Deorgast the most horrible fish trophy I've ever seen. Definitely would have tasted better than it looked, that's for sure.
I came back from the Shire not that long ago and it was uneventful. At least when I came back Pip had a few stories to take my mind off things; it's wonderful how she can so easily do so. The more time I spend with her, the more it seems I realize how much I am starting to love this woman. It's her bloody eyes, I tell you. And those lips... of course. Right now, I'm just content to sit here and watch her busy drift about the room. I guess I should actually be keeping her company, now that I thin.... (some squiggles drifts off the page)
